


Serendipity

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Music Festival, Sexual Content, Sharing A Tent, Storm - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: Dean and Cas meet at a weekend-long music festival. They're muddy and gross (cause it rained), a little buzzed, but somehow end up sharing a tent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoverlordmisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoverlordmisha/gifts).



> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> This is a response to a prompt the lovely [theoverlordmisha](http://theoverlordmisha.tumblr.com/) sent to me on tumblr. Come [find me there](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) and follow! Send me a prompt, and I'll be happy to try it out!

Way past midnight (at least, Dean _thinks_ it’s way past midnight; the numbers on his cell phone are blurry), the party is still going strong. So what if his friends had abandoned him? Charlie had been so lame, passing out in their tent for the night just as Wayward Angels was about to come on stage. As for Jo and Benny . . . they’d collapsed in a heap of limbs last time Dean saw them, swapping spit as if their lives depended on it.

But no way in hell is Dean missing Wayward Angels. They’re a kickass band, almost like Led Zeppelin reincarnated. Hell, Dean had come here just to see Wayward Angels. It’s not his fault the group’s so underrated they’d been given the shittiest time for their set.

Dean gulps down his umpteenth beer as the drummer, a short guy with golden brown hair, rips into a solo. At the end, to Dean’s surprise, he launches into one of Dean’s favorite Wayward Angels songs. This man usually doesn’t sing, but he actually likes his voice better than the lead vocalist’s. The drummer should sing more often. His voice booms into the microphone, and Dean jams along with the rest of the audience.

He startles when someone jostles his arm, and his cup falls to the ground, spilling the dregs into the grass. Dean spins around to tell the guy to watch it then freezes.

The man looks like he belongs in a coffee shop sipping mochaccinos, not at a three-day long music festival. Rectangular black glasses frame eyes that glow blue in the shadows of the floodlights. A blue sweater vest, layered atop a long-sleeved white shirt, emphasizes the guy’s eyes. And he’s got on khakis. Who the hell wears khakis to a place like this?

When the man’s lips start moving, Dean realizes that he’d meant to get Dean’s attention. He strains to hear his words over the music, but he gets nada.

“Dude, I can’t hear you,” Dean points out. Then feels stupid. If he can’t hear the guy, how can he expect the guy to hear him? Dean tries yelling the words and receives a bewildered gaze in return. He taps his ear and shakes his head, hoping that’ll communicate the message. After a minute, the man seems to get it. He leans in and speaks into Dean’s ear. “What do you think?”

And wow, Dean had not been expecting such a deep, raspy voice. It doesn’t match the guy’s dweeb façade at all. It’s kinda hot, actually. He hopes his blush isn’t visible.

“Think of what?” Dean shouts into the man’s ear.

“The band.” This time, the wet tip of the guy’s tongue grazes Dean’s ear. Dean suppresses an inexplicable urge to shiver.

“Love them,” Dean answers.

“I find them a bit derivative myself—”

Hey, is he about to insult Wayward Angels? Not cool.

But before Dean can object, thunder cracks through the air, drowning out the music. A few people glance around uneasily, and others scurry into tents. The next clap of thunder sounds ominous, like the sky’s about to fall down. A further smattering of individuals retreats into their tents.

The drummer laughs into the microphone. “A little thunder never killed nobody, right?” A bolt of lightning strikes directly behind him, and more concertgoers rush toward their tents.

“Wusses,” Dean laughs. “Ah, well. The show must go on.”

“That is unwise,” sweater vest guy declares. Dean ignores him, instead opting to nod along to the music. When the song’s over, thunder once again rips through the night.

A second later, a deluge pours from the sky.

“Shit!” the drummer yells into the microphone before running for cover. Dean stands still, stuck. Fuck, he’s soaked. He needs to get back to the tent, but he doesn’t remember where it is.

Sweater vest dude grabs his arm. “Come on!” he urges, pulling Dean behind him as he darts through the field.

“Where’re we goin’?” Dean asks.

“Inside.” At the tail end of the word, he trips over something and tumbles to the ground, dragging Dean with him.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles as he struggles to his feet. Mud patches cover his clothes. He tries to brush some off his jeans and comes away with a dirty hand he promptly wipes off on his pants.

Blue eyes staggers to his feet then stumbles again. He attempts to regain his footing but falls flat on his back and bursts into a fit of giggles.

“C’mon,” Dean hisses. “I’m drowin’ out here.” The man just lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Dammit,” Dean snaps. He snatches up the guy’s hand (and what a nice hand) and tugs until he cooperates. When he’s standing once again, the man clasps Dean’s forearm and continues toward his destination.

Soon, they reach a tent and dash inside. The man collapses and laughs.

“I don’t know what’s so funny,” Dean grouses, wincing. “My clothes are practically glued to my skin.”

The guy arches an eyebrow. “Would you like me to help you with that problem?”

“What?” There’s no way he’s heard the stranger correctly.

The man snickers. “You are quite an attractive specimen.” Specimen? What is Dean, a subject of some science experiment? “And I—” The guy scoots closer to him and unbuttons the top of Dean’s shirt. “—wouldn’t mind removing these. Helping you get dry.”

The man caresses Dean’s collarbone. Damn, he’s frisky. Dean shoves him away, and a flicker of hurt passes through his eyes. They’re glazed, Dean notices. “You’re drunk.”

The man titters. “And you’re not?”

Dean can’t deny that a pleasant buzz thrums underneath his skin. “Just don’t want you to do anythin’ you’ll regret.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could ever regret fucking you.” Dean’s dick twitches. That sentence in that deep, gravelly voice . . . it does things to him. The man’s tongue quickly skims over his bottom lip, and a sliver of lust courses through Dean at the sight.

“You don’t even know my name. And I don’t know yours.”

“Castiel.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my name. Castiel.”

“What kind of stupid name is that?”

Castiel glares at him, and no, it’s not kinda adorable. “Mine.”

“Casti—Casti—” Dean’s slow tongue can’t seem to roll around the name. “I’m just gonna call you Cas.”

“Okay.”

“I’m Dean.”

Cas beams. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hi?” Cas chuckles. “So, you still interested in, um . . . ”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Of course.” He flushes, suddenly bashful. “Are you?” Dean can barely hear the whisper above the rain pelting the tent.

“Hell, yeah.” Nerdy coffee-shop boy Cas is hot; no way is Dean passing this opportunity up.

“Good.” Cas crawls forward on and plasters his lips to Dean’s.

“Mmm,” Dean sighs, eyes involuntarily fluttering shut. When they open, a flash of lightning illuminates the tent, and Dean glimpses Cas’s hair. Dark black, damp strands stand up every which way. It’s goofy and cute at the same time. Dean plants a hand in Cas’s hair and draws him closer, insinuating his tongue inside Cas’s mouth, their teeth clacking. Cas moans obscenely against his mouth, and Dean coaxes Cas onto his back. They separate for a scant minute to regain their breath; then their lips greedily latch onto each other again.

“This. Off,” Dean demands, tugging at Cas’s sweater vest. Cas sits up so Dean can pull it over his head. After Dean tosses away the sweater vest, Cas reaches for Dean’s shirt and fumbles with the second button. Dean chortles at Cas’s struggle and lays his hands atop Cas’s, helping him undo the buttons. When it’s open, Dean lets the shirt fall to the floor as Cas rubs cold hands over his chest. Dean sighs at the sparks of electricity evoked by the touches. He grasps Cas’s wrists and pushes the hands away, eager to stroke his own hands over Cas’s skin. He tears open the buttons of Cas’s shirt impatiently and flings it aside. He reaches for Cas’s khakis next. Once they’re undone, he rolls them down until they pool at Cas’s ankles. Cas yanks Dean’s jeans down to his knees. Now, Dean finally skims his hands over Cas’s chest, his stomach, both of which are toned as fuck, Dean notices, between the flashes of lightning. It makes him nervous about the patch of flab his own stomach bears. Despite his geeky wardrobe, Cas could probably have any woman or man he wants with that spare, lean body, those muscular thighs and well-defined calves. Once he sees Dean’s body, maybe all bets will be off.

“You’re gorgeous,” Cas murmurs as Dean grips his hips.

Dean does a double take. “ _I’m_ gorgeous?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Cas huffs.

Oh, Dean knows he’s fairly attractive, but he pales in comparison to this guy. “ _You’re_ the gorgeous one.”

Cas snorts. “There is no need to flatter me, Dean.”

‘What?”

“You can fuck me regardless. I don’t require lies to be persuaded.”

How can Cas not know he’s gorgeous? That’s just about the saddest thing he’s ever heard. “Cas . . . I ain’t lyin’.”

Cas smiles bemusedly. “That is kind of you to say.”

Lightning flashes, and Dean catches the earnest expression in Cas’s eyes. “You’re one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. Trust me.” The next bolt of lightning reveals a deep red blush coloring Cas’s cheeks.

Cas leans forward and nips at a tendon on Dean’s neck. “Let’s just get to the sex, shall we?”

Dean moans. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grips Cas’s shoulders and gently shoves him onto his back, their chests flush together. He scents at Cas’s neck just beneath the ear, and he feels Cas shiver beneath him. He thrusts his cock against Cas’s tentatively. When Cas groans at the contact, Dean repeats the action. Cas rises up to meet him this time. They rapidly increase the pace, frantic, and Dean’s so eager to come, but he doesn’t want to shoot his load too soon. He melds his lips to Cas’s, desiring nothing more than to melt into him. When he draws back for breath, he makes the mistake of gazing straight into Cas’s eyes. Intense, and so, so blue.

Dean comes with a shout.

His cum spills onto Cas’s cock and thighs. He snatches at a swath of Cas’s hair as his body shudders.

“Dean!” Cas gasps, his lips grazing Dean’s as his own orgasm wrings through him. Afterward, Dean grabs a nearby article of clothing and wipes the cum off of them.

Their breaths mingle as their bodies regain equilibrium. Dean glances at Cas and notices that his glasses are askew, the frame having landed a tad below his left eye. It’s kinda ridiculous. Dean laughs.

Cas scowls. “What?”

“Your glasses are crooked.”

“Ha ha.”

“Here.” Dean straightens them, and Cas yawns. “Time for sleep, huh?”

“I suppose.” A particularly loud thunderclap tears through the night, shaking the tent. Cas flinches.

Dean smirks. “Scared of the storm, Cas?”

“Fuck you,” Cas hisses. Dean snickers, and Cas glowers at him. “Sorry. C’mere.” He wraps an arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulls him close, clasping his hands behind Cas’s neck. “G’night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel cracks his eyes open when he hears a rustling near the flap of the tent. Bright light filters inside, and birds loudly twitter outside. His eyes have drifted closed once again when a voice jerks him fully awake.

“Finally got some action, baby bro?” Gabriel sniggers.

Castiel grabs his sleeping bag from nearby and throws it over himself and Dean before whipping around to face his older brother. “Gabriel!”

“What?” Gabriel replies as he ventures farther into the tent. “I’m proud of you, Cassie. What’s it been, at least a year?”

“Fuck you!”

Dean rolls over and blinks awake. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks, his eyes skipping between Castiel and Gabriel.

“My brother has rudely intruded into our—”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Your brother is Gabriel Novak?!”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, although he hardly sees why that matters.

“The drummer of Wayward Angels is your brother.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Dean grins. “So that’s why you said they were overrated—”

“Dean!”

“You think we’re overrated?” Gabriel teases. “I’m hurt, baby bro.”

“Gabriel, I’m sorry—”

“Well, I for one am a huge fan,” Dean cuts in.

“Glad to hear it, Dean-o. Don’t take whatever Cassie says about us to heart. I know he loves us.” He side eyes Castiel. “It’s just not his usual style."

“Oh, what does he like?” Castiel wishes he were invisible. This conversation can _not_ be happening.

“Artsy-fartsy shit. Classical music. Folk stuff.”

“Knew you were a dork,” Dean says to Cas.

Why is it so hot in here? “Shut up.”

“Aw, man, I think it’s cute.”

He does not need to hear Dean’s vaguely veiled insults. Not after . . .

Gabriel ruffles his hair, and Castiel scowls. “I’m proud of you, baby bro. Glad to see you’re finally gettin’ over Michael.”

Castiel would punch Gabriel if Dean wasn’t here.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone for . . . y’know.” Gabriel winks then flees.

“Michael?” Dean echoes a minute later.

“None of your business,” Castiel snaps.

“He your ex?”

“What do you think?”

“What’d he do to you?”

“Who said he did anything to me?” Castiel retorts. Michael had indeed hurt him. Deeply. But no way is he discussing his baggage with a random one-night stand.

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did. It’s in your body language. Like, how you go so still anytime someone says his name.”

Castiel glances down at his body. A few flecks of mud pepper his skin, and his hair is damp. “I think I need a shower.” He stands up, pulls up his pants, and throws on a shirt.

“Yeah, me, too,” Dean responds. He gets dressed then follows Castiel out of the tent after Castiel grabs some soap and a towel.

“What’re you doing?” Castiel asks.

“Thought we were takin’ a shower.”

“Not together.”

“Never said we were.”

They hike to the communal bathrooms and find two unoccupied shower stalls. Castiel scrubs the grime from his skin and ponders his past with Michael.

Michael had been sweet. Castiel had never been well-liked, his awkwardness preventing him from forming solid friendships. But Michael had liked that about him.

However, Michael had been in the closet, not wanting to disappoint his religious parents. After one of his holiday visits with his family, he’d come home in a sour mood. That's when he changed. He would scold Castiel for being a sinner, for tempting him into depravity. He’d sputter curses at Castiel, insulting him even as he pushed deep inside his lover.

He’d caress him afterward, apologizing.

Then the cycle would begin again. He told Castiel he was sure he must have the devil inside, for he was the only man he’d ever felt attracted to.

He urged Castiel to repent.

During sex, he began to hurt him. Just gripping his wrists too hard at first, then one little slap. Then a punch.

The last time they’d made love, he’d used Castiel’s body up. Going too hard, stimulating Castiel too soon after he’d come, hurling epithets that still brought tears to his eyes.

And now . . . he doesn’t know what to make of his behavior last night. He’d been drunk. There’s no other way to explain it. Dean is too beautiful for Castiel to even muster up the courage to speak to him otherwise.

That’s probably why Dean had come along with him, too. He never would’ve given Castiel a second look if he’d been sober.

His face heats up with shame when he recalls how forward he’d been last night. Perhaps Michael had been right. Maybe he really is defective.

But the release, the sex, it had felt so good after going without for so long.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and steps out of the shower. He dries off and turns toward the exit but pauses when Dean calls his name.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel answers. What does Dean want? He just feels like going back to his tent and wallowing. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold it in.

“Um . . . sorry, this is awkward. But I don’t have a towel or soap or anythin’. Can I borrow yours?”

“Of course.” He passes the soap to Dean in the shower stall. A few minutes later, he hears Dean shut off the shower. Castiel hands him the towel. When Dean throws open the shower curtain, he’s wrapped in the towel. He’s so handsome, Castiel realizes for the millionth time. Green eyes sparkle with kindness. Freckles dust his cheeks, his shoulders, and Castiel just wants to brush his lips over them.

“Cas?” Dean prompts.

“Yes?”

“You all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your eyes. They’re red . . . kinda like you’ve been cryin’.”

“Maybe I have,” Castiel admits. “What’s it to you?”

“Is it Michael?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m sorry, man. Whatever that dick did to you . . . you didn’t deserve it.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know me.”

“No.” Dean grabs his hand. “But I’d like to. Um.” He reddens. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, Cas. I like you.” Castiel’s mouth falls open. “And when I get back to Lawrence, I’d like to keep talkin’. You have a Facebook, right?”

“You live in Lawrence?” Castiel marvels. “Lawrence, Kansas?”

“Uh huh.”

“I live in Lawrence, Kansas, too.”

Dean smiles. “Hey, what’re the odds? The same town.” He leans in and whispers in Castiel’s ear. “Then it’d be a crime not to see you again.”

“Would you really want to?”

“Hell, yes.” Dean picks up his clothes and changes there, right in front of Castiel. Even though he’s stunned by Dean’s nonchalance, he can’t help but watch him closely, admire his body. Thank goodness no one else is around at the moment.

“How ’bout we grab some grub?” Dean proposes once he’s dressed.

“Okay.”

“Mind if we find Charlie, Jo, and Benny first?”

“Who are—”

“Friends of mine.” Dean grins. “I think they’ll like you.”

“Okay.”

Dean laces his fingers through Castiel's, and for the first time in over a year, Castiel feels hope for the future. He’d resented Gabriel for dragging him to his band’s latest gig, but if he hadn’t given in, he never would’ve met Dean.

His behavior last night had been out of character. Perhaps acting out of character once in a while can sometimes be a good thing, he reflects.


End file.
